Knock on my Door
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: Stella and Mac: always together, but always alone, and Stella wonders why… Spoilers up to and including 5.24.


**Knock on my door**

**Summary**: Stella and Mac: always together, but always alone, and Stella wonders why…

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I guess belong to CBS and their cohorts. I would quite like to own Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

**A/N**: Set after 5.24, so incidental spoilers up to there. Can't handle 5.25 till we know what's in 6.1.

* * *

Stella Bonasera wondered why she'd ever stopped fancying Mac Taylor.

She'd been content to gaze from afar when he was married to Claire, her generosity of soul delighting in his obvious contentment. In her fantasies, she and Mac got very close indeed, but they always teased her with little feathers of guilt: after all, he most definitely belonged to someone else.

After the horror of 9/11, she'd placed Mac in purdah: sure, she'd held him through more than one anguished night, but hers had been the arms of a friend, and she would never have dreamed of asking that they become more. Hoping, certainly – but Mac had needed nothing save his memories and, lonely as she was, she had soon found Frankie's strangely insistent attentions flattering. Huh – everyone knew how _that_ had ended. She shook her head, still impatient with herself for not having seen the signs.

But it took her off Mac's radar – if she'd ever been on it – and there was no way he would approach her romantically in the aftermath of such a terrible experience. Reversing roles, she had cried on his shoulder, and if sometimes she had held on tighter than mere grief warranted, he had never appeared to notice. Even then, she had stored up the scent of him – the soap he used, the old-fashioned aftershave that never varied – for the lonely days ahead. She remembered how extraordinarily smooth his skin was right after he'd shaved…

Then, out of the blue, Peyton appeared, and Stella had a hard time reconciling her desire for Mac's happiness with her dislike of the bony Englishwoman. But she'd seen the love in their veiled eyes and, although the two were so ill-suited as to be laughable, it seemed to be working. For a while.

London, the 333 caller – something happened, and Mac returned alone. Perhaps their relationship needed the sheltering hothouse of the lab; perhaps when it tried to grow outside it simply withered on the vine. Whatever it was, perfectly prissy Peyton hadn't even had the decency to dump him face to face – even voice to voice – but had sent him a letter saying that lives until that moment intertwined were now irreparably ripped apart.

It was the second time a woman he loved had left him.

And then, as he had wrapped up his personal life like a parcel, smothered it in layers of emotion-proof paper and abandoned it in a locked, lonely room, her own had become increasingly interesting – exciting – dangerous. To Mac as well as herself. Her brush with HIV, and the fact that Mac had shown no hesitation in touching her. Her encounter with international artefact smuggling; she felt an awful shiver ripple through her as she recognised that she had put him in danger, through her foolishness over nothing more than an old coin. And she had been brought face to face with a long-buried, unpleasant truth: that she still felt far more for her darkly quiet boss than was commensurate with her peace of mind.

Danny and Lindsey hadn't helped. Their relationship had been textbook, even including the obligatory arguments and temporary break-ups. It had been a high-school romance, sweet and tentative, powerful and insistent, sweeping them both off their dear little feet and ending up with a tiny, perfect baby, cradled in Mac's arms. She had never seen such an expression on his face before: love and longing and fear and sadness all mixed up in one beautiful, uncertain smile. It had been enough to break her heart.

She closed her eyes and wrapped tired hands around her coffee. This was her haven, her private space, washed clean of Frankie's blood and memory, and no-one could ever penetrate the defences she had erected. But this evening, cool after the heavy European heat, she would have welcomed an interruption, she thought. Especially from Mac.

She imagined he was standing there before her. He would be wearing an immaculate open-necked t-shirt and dark blue chinos with an ironed crease down the front. Strangely, she thought of him with bare feet, padding across her smooth wooden floors like a huge dog, guarding her from harm. He would not offer her champagne – not after Frankie. No, he would treat her like a friend, an equal: he would hold out an opened can of beer, and they would sit companionably on the sofa as the New York breeze waved the curtains through the apartment like ghosts in the mist.

She smiled to herself: there were no ghosts here. Mac had made sure of that, holding her when she needed holding, letting her return against his better judgement before she became too scared to do so, always answering the phone when she called at the dead of night to ramble incoherently into a compassionate ear. He had kept her sanctuary pure.

She wondered what they would talk about. The job, their shared history – Claire. That stopped her reverie in its tracks. Mac hadn't mentioned her for months, and Reed seemed to have found an independent path in the world, but there was no doubt that Claire was, and always would be, present and real for Mac. She wrinkled her brow – it hadn't stopped him dating Peyton. Then her face cleared: perhaps it had. Peyton wasn't the forgiving sort and, from what Stella had heard, she could be jealous, too: not necessarily attributes fatal to a relationship, but definitely not appropriate for someone who needed the room in his head that Mac Taylor needed.

_I'd give him the room!_ Stella thought. To share Mac with another woman would still be to have twice what any other man could give. She snuffed up the memory of that aftershave, and wondered if it had been Claire's favourite, or whether he'd changed it after – after The Day, because it reminded him of her. She knew he'd cleared most of her stuff out of his apartment, but he would never clear it out of his head.

She imagined Mac's hands on her, as they had been when he held her during the dark hours after Frankie. In her mind, she moved the hands slowly down her back, and gazed into the gentle eyes as their expression of kindness melted into something different – something more focussed. His voice was low and drifting. "I've always wanted you, Stella."

She looked intently at the face, so near her own, so unchangingly precious. She had never seen anyone who resembled her boss. Mac's face was full but not fat, his mouth thin but not harsh: she imagined how that mouth would feel against her own, and caught her breath. "Stella?" A hand pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead, like the touch of down. "We don't have to do anything you don't want. We don't have to do anything at all." He pulled away from her slightly, making it clear that she could leave his grasp any time she wanted.

She smiled, amused to find herself reassuring him. "Mac…" Freed from his tight embrace, she ran her hand down his smooth cheek, tracing the bone down to the jawline, and felt his own sharp intake of breath. His eyes closed briefly, and she became aware of his body against her own. Reaching up once more, she cupped his face in her free hand and gently pulled it towards her own. Their lips met, fleetingly, teasingly.

There was no need for words.

Her eyes flew open: the contents of the coffee cup clutched in her hand had slopped onto her skirt. Gathering her thoughts, she smiled sardonically: she had dozed off day-dreaming. Not something she would have expected of herself. But Mac was not an 'expected' sort of man. He hugged the daydream's memory: it would never come true, but it was still beautiful. She shivered as she recalled the feel of him against her, then shook her head in irritation.

"Grow up, Stella," she muttered.

Moving towards the kitchen area, she considered her meal: she couldn't get Mac out of her mind, and felt that she had to replace one desire with another. Good food wasn't any substitute for a good man, but it might help dull the ache. She decided to cook from scratch: the physical sensuality of the task should take her mind off other things.

The process was calming and therapeutic: as the seafood and peppers softened and blended, the spices filled her head and the aroma filled her nostrils. They didn't chase Mac away – nothing could do that – but they did take the edge off her need. Dammit, why did he have to be so perfect?

Without warning, there was a knock on the door. Stella jumped so badly that some of the almost-completed meal spilled onto her skirt, joining the coffee. She glanced at the clock: eleven fifteen. At night – as she had cooked, the light had gone, though something of the day's warmth still lingered. She felt the panic rise, and breathed slowly to control the racing of her heart. There was no reason to suppose that the sound meant trouble: coincidences happened, but they were rare.

But eleven fifteen at night? It could be no ordinary caller. If she remained silent, perhaps they would go away…

Turning the hob to simmer, she took a few steps, and looked towards the door. In the crack of light at its foot she could see two shadows – two large shadows – male feet, set apart at their owner waited easily not more than ten feet from her. She swallowed a squeak: she was a strong, powerful woman – why the hell should she be afraid in her own home? She strained her eyes in the dark: were the safety chains on? She was pretty sure they were…

Into the silence, the shadow moved and Stella tensed. Sauce from the spoon in her hand dripped onto the floor with a flat, wet sound. Something pale and smooth slipped between the base of the door and the wood beneath; there was a chink of glass, a sneak of shoe leather on stone, and the shadow was gone. Stella remembered to breathe.

Snapping back into reality, she darted forward and grabbed the thing that had invaded her apartment like an animal. Replacing the spoon in the pot, she opened the note with sticky, shaking hands, her mouth dry in terror and anticipation.

"Stella – thought you'd enjoy some Rioja. Be well – Mac."

One by one, her thought processes formed themselves into something resembling coherence, as she reconstructed the last few minutes and realised what had just happened. Dropping the little piece of paper, she flew across the room, struggled noisily to remove the chains, and flung open the heavy door. No-one was there: Mac had gone.

"Mac?" Her voice was small and uncertain, and she wondered at herself. She snicked the door shut – it would need her security code for anyone to gain access, now – and ran to the end of the hall. She was just in time to see the elevator doors close. "Mac!" The elevator began its descent.

Slowly, she turned away. She could feel the tears starting behind her eyes, and cursed herself for a fool. Walking towards her door, she saw the paper bag at its foot, two bottles of good Rioja inside. She dropped her head: how could she have known? Another missed opportunity in a long line of many. Sighing, she picked up the bag, punched the code, and entered her empty apartment. She glanced over at the sofa: Mac could be sitting there right now, smiling his crooked, boyish smile, sipping the rich, thick wine, reaching out to touch her…

She shook her head impatiently. She _wasn't_ a fool – he should have called out – it was just one of those things. If he did it once, he could do it again. Hell, she could do it to him! But she knew she wouldn't: she knew how fanatically proud and private this man was, and how much it might have cost him to come to her. It wouldn't happen again.

Footsteps. Footsteps in the hall. Footsteps stopping by her door. She placed the wine on the table without a sound. Knocking on heavy wood. Oh God… Breathing – she could hear him breathing. She had forgotten to replace the chains. Then a voice.

"Stella!"

It took a few seconds for her to move, and a few more for her voice to work. "Mac?"

"Stella – are you OK?"

"Who is it?" She had to be sure.

His reply was puzzled. "It's Mac – Mac Taylor." As if she knew any others! "I heard you call, but I couldn't stop the elevator. Listen, it's late – I'll see you tomorrow."

"No!" Again she dashed to the door. "Hey!" She was almost panting now, and registered the odd expression on his face as he looked at her. "Mac – I thought – I…" She trailed off stupidly, vaguely indicating the apartment behind her, remembering Frankie, feeling Dr P dying in her arms. She turned her eyes to his face in silent appeal.

He smiled, and she felt something melt in her stomach. Dammit, this wasn't the time. He nodded to the hall table. "I brought some wine."

"Yes – yes. I – " She tried to organise her thoughts, and failed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you."

"I should have phoned. I'm sorry, Stella." She loved it when he said her name. "I'll go. I'm glad you're all right."

"No." She moved forward, into the light of the hall, and caught hold of his sleeve. His face registered his surprise, but otherwise he remained still. "No – come in, Mac. Please – come in."

"Are you sure?" He knew this was her escape from the world.

She nodded, and he moved past her: she felt his warmth, and his scent filled up her senses. She almost reached out, but stopped herself just in time. This was _not_ a fantasy.

"Something's cooking."

She recognised his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. "It's _makaronatha tou psara_." His eyebrows lifted. "Fisherman's pasta. Lots of peppers and garlic. It only needs the pasta now."

"Smells good."

"Thanks." God, she was making him work hard. She had to get a grip. "Mac – I'm sorry. You took me by surprise. I was – thinking about things." Her breath caught with a mixture of panic and desire: she was very aware that he was standing only feet away. "I'll be all right in a minute."

"I'll pour you a glass of wine." He crossed to the table and retrieved the Rioja. "Stella – there's sauce on the floor. And your skirt."

The silly comment – so typical of the neat and tidy Mac – was the final straw. She began to shake. The tension of remembering, of events in Greece, of realising how much she cared for this man – it was all, at last, too much. She sobbed – once – and apparently without moving he was at her side. She turned towards him, and again felt those strong arms around her. No dream this time: this time, it was real. He smelt the same, he felt the same, but he was solid, flesh and blood and here and beautiful: she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him as close as she could, trying to climb inside the protection of his warmth.

He held her, without a sound or a movement, until she was calm. His shoulder, wet from her tears, was cold against her skin, and she felt her head spin. What she did next was instinctive, an animal response to the damp chill against her cheek. Turning to the warmth of his neck, she buried her face in it, pushing into the intimate, comforting contact. She felt him tense, but her emotions were too raw to stop now. She kissed the smooth skin, breathing in the scent of clean man and old aftershave, and let her lips linger just too long before drawing away.

His eyes were serious, gentle and dark. "Stella?" Always, a man of few words.

She swallowed. Her legs were jelly: he was so close, his whole body touching hers, and she was aware of every inch of contact. Quickly, before her courage failed her, she reached up and kissed him on those fine-drawn lips. Burying her head in his chest to avoid his eyes, she held her breath and waited.

He shifted, and raised her chin until their faces were close but not touching. Searching her with eyes that seemed to open up her soul, he moved a finger across her flesh, his lips parted in concentration, tracing the shape of her eyes, her cheek, her mouth. She felt him begin to tremble. Infinitely gently, he dropped his lips to hers to return the kiss – lightly, lingeringly, always giving her room to leave. His actions were – as she had dreamed – slow and controlled. But she felt the movement elsewhere in his body that he could not control, and when she opened his mouth under his kiss, he began to drink deeper and without reserve. No dream, this – no calm projection of a daytime colleague. This was a real, flesh and blood man of fire and passion, urgency and need.

She pulled him closer: he wasn't getting away again. The dinner and the wine could wait. The kiss became fiercer and more intense. And, in a final moment of half-lucid thought before she lost herself completely, Stella Bonasera wondered why she'd ever stopped fancying Mac Taylor.


End file.
